“There she goes,” he says.
I target his outstretched arm, determined to reach the wire-gun, whirring shrill and smoking as the spool unwinds furiously. Surprisingly, he steps forward and offers it. I’m nearly to him when the wire reaches the end of its supply—a loud snap. In a blur, the device launches out of his relaxed grip.
“Whoopsie,” he says, pretending surprise.
The wire-gun skitters across the rooftop, following after Christina and her fading screams. I go tearing after it.
“That’s right,” he says. “Go after her.”
I dive to the edge and stretch to reach the gun. At the precipice, it slips through my fingers and sails off the rooftop, gone forever.
Staring over the side, I have a clear view of the street, many floors down. I watch helplessly—horrified—as Christina plummets, screaming the entire distance until muffled by the thick thud of her precious body slamming into the pavement far below.
* * *
Fury blackens all sorrow—for now—as anger buries the grief. This is the last time Jared will hurt me, or anyone I love. My rage is so incredible, I have become calm, triggered by an infusion of every emotion released all at once.
I get up and turn to face Jared. He laughs as I start toward him, accelerating each step and rising to a blazing sprint, locked on my prey. He loses the cocky grin and aims his pistol. I don’t care, fire all you like. Nothing—not you or your puny weapons—will stop me.
A sizzling beam shoots from the barrel. I twist and swerve, the beam whizzes past. His next blast can’t match my fluid motion, any assault is useless—I am beyond determined. On his third try I’m in his face, knocking the barrel skyward and him to the deck with a bone-crushing body-slam. I straddle the bastard, deflect his pistol and blasts, my free hand an iron fist—all the weapon I need—fueled by a lunatic frenzy of blows unleashed across his face.
His pistol crashes into my skull like a hammer, sending me over and he gets free. Stunned, I hurry to rise as he sits up and spits a mouthful of blood, his eyes and cheeks badly swollen. For a split-second we lock stares, his that of a hideous monster.
He aims the pistol. I kick for the weapon and connect, knocking it from his grasp, but a scorching blast grazes my arm,
screaming fire!
One leg out, I’m caught off-balance. He seizes my boot and twists, twirling me over and crashing down. He pins me and returns a frenzy of fists, beating my face until bloody and swollen to match his. I twine our legs and fling hard, flipping him over and rise to the top, bashing his skull until he duplicates the maneuver and regains control. Then I’m back on top, blood slinging from my raging fists—then him, pummeling my face—then me—then him—trading places as we trade blows, rolling across the rooftop knocking the crap out of each other.
With well-matched strength and determination, all we accomplish is beating ourselves equally senseless. Exhausted, his blows become little more than dropping a fist, until even that is too strenuous. He flops over to land on his back, both of us collapsed and laid out flat, catching our breath, bloody, bruised, and beaten.
Jared cocks his head to see the blast pistol lying on the rooftop. He reaches for the weapon, retrieves it, and struggles up onto one knee.
He presses the barrel between my eyes. “You’re done.”
Sonorous humming comes fast and loud. The rebel transport drops from the sky, hanging over the rooftop, and the cargo door slams open. I must be dreaming, to see what I’m seeing, in the threshold wielding a blast cannon. Christina, alive.
“I brought extras,” she says, and aims for Jared.
I knock the pistol from his grip and she opens fire. Jared scrambles to his feet, dodging blasts, and dives for the only available cover—behind the rooftop access structure.
Christina leaps out and rushes to my aid.
“Give me that fucking thing.” I seize the weapon from her, pull the trigger and keep it depressed, screaming a storm of obscenities while the cannon recoils like a jackhammer gone mad. I empty the weapon blasting every square inch of the structure Jared hides behind, reducing it to a mound of debris, then hustle around to the backside, ready to finish the bastard. He stands near the roof’s edge, hands up, a face of stone. A few brisk steps and the weapon is up close and personal, my unblinking eye staring down the barrel into his.
“You’re who’s done.” Not a hint of regret, not a single reason to reconsider, this ends right here, right now. I squeeze the trigger—click.
His blank expression slowly morphs into the cocky Jared I’ve come to know, along with the smug grin I hate.
“You can’t win,” he says.
Behind him, a pair of enemy craft rise from below the precipice, weapons hanging from their bellies, wiggling for aim. He glances over his shoulder, gives me that pansy-ass grin, then drops to the deck. The enemy weapons blaze.
Christina comes out of nowhere and tackles me. We scramble for cover behind the demolished access structure. Vicious humming soars overhead—the rebel transport swoops past, door open with cargo bay full of intruders and their blast cannons. The enemy craft shift to our allies and open fire, rebels return as much or more, and blinding electrobeams fill the sky.
I peer over the smoldering debris and search for Jared. I still want to kill that bastard, at least a hundred times, maybe more.
Christina pulls me down. “Forget about Jared,” she says. “We have to get out of here.”
I call upon my infinite determination.
“I will never forget.”
* * *
Enemy squadrons dive from the sky, gunning for the transport. Christina and I sprint across the rooftop, dodging fireballs exploding in our path. Rebel fighters come head-on, soar past and slice through the enemy, delivering a barrage of counter-assault. Brilliant spheres sizzle and crack, and shards of light crash overhead. The rebel transport drops lower, cargo door open and Dave reaching out, joined by a throng of rebel intruders hollering for us to run faster. Their outstretched arms haul us aboard, the door slams shut, and the noise of battle is displaced by screaming engines. The craft tilts in a jerk, forcing all to struggle for balance. A blast strikes and rocks us sideways as the craft launches into the sky.
As the transport climbs rapidly, I stand facing Christina, struggling to comprehend how this is possible.
“Is it really you?” I ask.
“Of course, you goof. Look for yourself.” She widens her eyes.
I could become lost in those blue eyes. I certainly have, and I will again. Of course it’s her, my one and only Christina. But how? I watched her fall, and worse, witnessed the moment of impact. And now here she is, just as before. So much has happened so fast, I don’t know what to believe anymore.
The noisy cargo bay draws my attention. Past Christina, the cavernous interior of the transport spreads out like a warehouse, bustling with activity as rebels dismantle and stow weaponry. Legions of the mysterious individuals work industriously, outfitted in matching black bodysuits, but now with their ski masks removed, the intruders assume a not-so-mysterious sense of personality.
“Who are all your friends?” I ask.
“The finest soldiers this side of the galaxy.” Christina looks across the troops hurrying past, very proud of them, then back to me. “And more than happy to assist when their favorite hero is in trouble.”
“Hey,” Dave says. “Us boys from Idan aren’t so bad.”
Christina laughs. “No offense, David, but
you boys
wouldn’t stand a chance up against this Theabean regiment.”
“Why not?” I ask. “What makes soldiers from Theabis so special?”
She folds her arms and smiles proudly. “Their commander.”
Dave glances at me and we silently agree—good thing we’re on the same team. Neither of us would want to face Christina in battle.
He asks, “Why are women always right?”
“Easy,” I explain. “They’re female.”
Beyond Dave, an odd sight catches my eye, partly obscured by the stream of soldiers moving past. I work my way through the troops and approach a quiet corner of the cargo bay.
A string of females is seated along a bench, outfitted in the same black bodysuits, but without masks to hide their faces. Silent and unmoving, they sit with supreme posture, projecting mindless gazes from dull gray eyes.
All duplicates of Christina.
Christina—the real Christina—appears at my side. “I came prepared.”
My attention remains on the inanimate copies. “
That
is creepy.”
“I would have brought some for you, but I wasn’t sure if you remembered how to do it.”
“Do what?” I ask.
“Leave the body and get another,” she says, like it’s no big deal.
I can only stare at—
the extras.
They’re units, from the farm.
“Do you?” she asks.
Her blunt question only magnifies my discomfort with the whole idea. Do I know how to die?
“This one’s fine for now. Don’t worry about me.”
Her gaze deepens and she becomes somber. She reaches out to caress my swollen cheek. “Adam, all I do is worry about you.”
* * *
Our vigorous ascent continues, rocketing into the atmosphere, and Christina guides me to a berthing compartment as I hobble alongside. The reality of warfare has set in—this body has taken a beating. Cuts and bruises, both eyes blackened, every muscle strained. She opens a hatch and pulls me through, then puts me in a bunk where I may recuperate. She gathers antiseptic, gauze and washrags, then kneels at my side, cleaning my wounds.
“Ouch! Take it easy, will ya?”
“Don’t be such a sissy.”
“A sissy? Hey, I could’ve run away.”
“Without me?”
“For all I knew, you were dead.”
She postpones the mild torture, runs her fingers through my hair, and massages my battered skull. Yes, please, more of that. I hurt everywhere, and that kind of tender touch is medicine capable of curing any ailment.
“I would never do that to you, Adam.”
“You wouldn’t?”
She shakes her head and smiles. “No way. I’m with you forever.” She leans close, applies a tender kiss to my forehead, another to the bridge of my nose, then face to face, our lips draw near.
My eyes fall closed.
Next thing I know, my skull whacks a bulkhead.
I look down to see Christina looking up at me, and giggling.
We have escaped the atmosphere.
* * *
A rap on the hatch catches our combined attention. Christina draws her wandering hair into a ponytail, then pushes off and glides to the hatch. In the meantime, I fumble for something to hang on to. She opens the door and Dave floats in, studying a sheet of paper he is holding.
“Adam, I think this message is yours.”
“Who’s it from?”
“That’s the weird part.”
“Why? What’s so weird about it?”
Christina peers over his shoulder and studies the message.
Dave says, “I can’t tell if it’s a message for you, or from you.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“It came over standard channels a few minutes ago.”
Christina takes the paper from Dave, then shifts to me and rattles the sheet. “Adam, did you write this?”
“I don’t know. Let’s have a look.”
She hands over the note.
WE REMIND: The mission is intact and will progress now that we have restored memory and reassembled the team. At this time, what we sought to accomplish will be evident. Proceed immediately to the coordinates indicated by the diagram. Good luck. Adam.
“Well?” Dave asks. “Did you write it?”
“That’s not important.” I pat down the pockets of my jacket. Where is it?
“Who is
we?
” Christina asks.
“It doesn’t matter. More important is what it says.”
Where is that thing? I know I put it in one of these pockets.
Dave asks, “What’s it say that’s so important?”
Here it is—the computer printout with star-map and precise coordinates.
“It says
my intentions are not denied.
I remember what I was doing in the first place, before any of this.”
“And what is that?” he asks.
I wave the diagram. “Obtaining a scrap of restricted information.”
Christina gets excited. “You got it?”
“Got what?” Dave asks.
“We will not be going home.”
Dave looks surprised. “We’re not? Then where?”
My determination is infinite. I have restored myself, including my memory, and with it—the original mission. I know who I am, where I’ve been, and most important, where I am going. Now I will discover the unknown—the fate of our missing friends.
“The Restricted Zone.”
# # #
The adventure continues with
Apotheosis: Dead Forever Book 2
Available from your favorite e-bookstore
or visit
www.deadforever.com